


Catharsis

by longteeth



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: 47 with the madonna whore complex asdfhjfdghj, Angst, F/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Pining, Praise Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Shame, Smut, angsty porn, deification of a lover, exploring sexuality a bit idk, not the mission story from sapienza, our boy is in loveee, post nut clarity just getting to him what can i say, set post absolution but before the woa trilogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29821857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longteeth/pseuds/longteeth
Summary: Falling in love was a death, and not the clean, calculated procedure he spent his whole life dealing with, but a growing wound that burned and itched and made him go all hazy.
Relationships: Agent 47/Diana Burnwood
Comments: 16
Kudos: 44





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thank you to bourbonpowered for beta reading!! <3
> 
> I like the idea of 47 experiencing love and instead of seeing it as proof of his humanity, viewing it as a weakness, so here is my take on that, enjoy :)

Falling in love was a death, and not the clean, calculated procedure he spent his whole life dealing with, but a growing wound that burned and itched and made him go all hazy. It was new and horrible, and he wished it would disappear, but he couldn’t deny his horrid flaw when he stared at the ceiling of his safehouse tonight, with only the thought of her to keep him comfort.

She’d call him of course, regularly. He was grateful for her contact – monthly briefings simply wouldn’t suffice - so weekly, on an encrypted line, they talked for hours. She was far more talkative than he, and often apologetic about the absurd times she’d call him at, though he always promised it wasn’t a problem - since any time spent alone with his thoughts for just a second too long naturally led his thoughts to her anyway.

He’d picture her elegantly sloping features when she spoke to him, his memory of her crystal clear. Meetings between them were rare, but he supposed it was for the best. The ICA had protocols in place to prevent these exact kind of wounds - any affection could be exploited, so it should be avoided at all costs. Still, he was adaptable - even when her face was obstructed by the ornate window of a confessional booth, he’d lose himself in the smell of her perfume, attach sandalwood and jasmine to his mental impression of her. The world looked funny when he felt her presence.

The image flooding his head was her collapsed on the floor, a glistening halo of blood around her dewy skin and silky hair. His handiwork. She had survived, he knew that now, but the nights he’d spent questioning his very existence without her were a bleak reminder of the nature of this partnership. He belonged to her; they both knew it. He was no more than a docile tool, a blank slate, ready for her orders. She must have known that without her he’d be nothing. He should’ve let her avoid all that pain - let himself avoid the pain, should have waited for her explanation, and ideally caught her in a moment where she wasn’t so… well, _vulnerable_. He tried to convince himself that he could do it at the time, that killing her was possible, a contract like any other. It was not. The cruel knowledge that he couldn’t fulfil his only purpose shook him to his core, kept him up at night.

Nowadays he had all the time in the world to ponder over _why_ he couldn’t do it. He had deliberately missed his shot, the bullet hit below the ribs, avoiding any damage to critical organs and major blood vessels, but it was a shot nonetheless. Her file mentioned she metabolised trauma quickly, and this proved true – she showed no signs of distress, or even frustration towards him in their phone calls, but none of it mattered since he shouldn’t have done anything to test her flawless metabolism in the first place.

He supposed in many ways she was a kind of guardian angel, like the ones Vittorio spoke of; she kept him from straying from the beacon of morality, she gave the killing a purpose, turned disorder into elegance - his perfect, meticulous craft - and he had repaid her with a bullet wound.

Despite her repeated invitations, he refused to see her in person for the past few months. He knew he couldn’t look her in the eyes. He’d imprinted irrefutable, permanent damage, enough to scar for an eternity, an immortal reminder that anyone who risked getting close to him would suffer the consequences, that not even _she_ was safe, because he was a killer, and no amount of human contact would rid him of his innate illness. She deserved safety, and if that meant avoiding her presence forever, then he’d vow to never see her again.

In a way, her lack of resentment angered him. He had hurt her, and she let him, took it with no complaints. When she was dying on the cold tiled floor, shivering as blood and water dripped from her pale body, holding onto his hand, he was frightened by the idea of her acceptance.

What if she _had_ died?

Neither of them could have known then, and she spoke to him as though he hadn’t been the one to shoot her. Rarely did a target ever get a chance to see his face in their dying moments, but the few that did would always attempt to fight back, terrified, frustrated; anger manifested in some way, or defence at the very least. Not her. And the thought alarmed him more than anything. She held his hand then as though she was grateful for his presence, looked into his eyes with understanding, a loyalty unmatched, and he deserved none of it, not then, and never again.

If she heard hid thoughts, she would justify it, thick, plummy voice; _you did what was necessary_ \- but it wasn’t, no, he should have known, trusted her as she trusted him. The harsh truth was that he was only ever capable of violence. There was no shame in it, it was who he was meant to be, but it twisted and hurt and made his insides curl with disgust.

He yearned to make it right - he didn’t deserve her, but in a parallel universe where she would allow him to get so close, he wished he could prove that he could be good. He had done good things before, she knew he had cared for living creatures. If things were different, he would hold her, yes, hold her close to him gently, stroke her hair, comfort her somehow, only if she let him, only if she deemed it appropriate. Words failed him oh so often, and ‘sorry’ didn’t even begin to make up for it, but he was sure she would understand, if she let him kiss her scar, he might try to word his thoughts coherently. He would never, ever really do such a thing of course, he promised himself, he didn’t need to risk their relationship anymore than he already has.

The reality that he’d never experience her touch crawled through him uncomfortably.

It was naïve to think that she ever needed his comfort. It was him who clung to her like a puppy, ached for her praise and approval. He looked to her to make the right decision, to tell him what to do, to keep him safe, and she delivered on all fronts. He wondered what she really thought of him - if her admiration was ever more than professional. It wasn’t his place to ask, but he could speculate all he liked. What would a woman like her desire? She was married once, he recalled, but it was short-lived, and she never spoke of it. He’d never even met the lucky bastard, couldn’t know for sure that he was real. He supposed it wasn’t easy to date with a career like hers – too many secrets, too little time, all the constant travel. Maybe one day she would entertain the idea of indulging him such information about herself, but she seemed so far away, and it was for the best, he promised himself.

Wishful secrets held in his heart only turned him bitter. To stay up at night in this horrid longing, shivering with guilt and yet desire for someone who he was afraid to face properly was humiliating, and below him. Pushing these thoughts away became harder with each passing minute, and the truth was too painful to face - he’d have to delude himself for at least a few minutes longer, allow himself the fantasy of her love. She’d always cared for him, after all. Still, he wished that there was more than professionalism in her unwavering loyalty, that she appreciated their bond and yet craved for more, in that same, awful way that he did. She had risked her life for him – that meant something, _surely_.

He heard her voice in his head, though he knew it couldn’t be, it held the same sweet tone that she used with him, and it started to whisper all the loveliest things he could think of. His belt buckle clattered loudly when it hit the floor, and soon his trousers were pushed around his ankles as he held his aching penis in his cold, manicured hand. He could allow himself this, just once, because there was nothing else he could do, because it was all too much.

Led by her, he began to stroke himself, slowly, thinking of all her praise and promises, her clever words always so teasing in that charming, human way. It could be her touching him like this, her perfect hands on him, tender kisses and gentle strokes and all. His soft groans filled the dark room, as he imagined the way her lips would feel against his own, or on his skin, how her red hair would tickle if she were with him now. She was always so good to him, he mused about the things she’d murmur if this was real, her pouty lips cruel in that maddening, seductive way. He thought of the curve of her nude spine, the glimpse he caught of her before he had ruined everything, imprinted in his head against his better judgement. If things were different, if he was good, he could have had a chance with her, maybe. He’d do anything, carry out any obscene request she could ever come up with, give his life for a blissful minute in her company, just to see her, touch her, smell her, taste her, take in the full sensory reality of her being.

His breaths grew ragged and desperate, pre-cum trailing down his shaft as her sighs filled his mind, and he could swear he felt the warmth of her hands on him, she was painfully beautiful like this, and he needed her, couldn’t fathom that they had never done this, when it looked so right, when it felt like coming home after years of searching for it.

He thought of all the things she’d say if she loved him, of what she’d _do_ , and his moans got louder, thankful for the thick walls in his safehouse. There was no air to breathe, just the aroma of her, her body haunting him like a spectre, the sweetest revenge. He grabbed the duvet to steady himself, smooth and pale – it could be her hand. He started to pump quicker, there was a fire within him and he felt himself getting closer, shuddering with satisfaction, losing control over himself in exchange for her presence, for her control. She was there, he was sure of it, she was everywhere, kissing and touching and stroking and giving him everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s never deserved, at once bringing him agony and euphoria.

His hips bucked as he came, the sticky liquid leaking down his hands, speckling his thighs and abdomen. Everything was too much, his mind cloudy, thoughts incoherent, as though poisoned by her scent and words and blood, some kind of obscene groan filled the room, and it sounded like him, but no - that would mean… it couldn’t be-

He cringed as his mind came back to reality, washing off the mess immediately, too obscene and horrible. When he faced himself in the mirror under the sickly warm light, he felt his chest twist with the realisation of what he had just done. If she knew, _God_ , he shivered, she’d hate him forever. He’d been so selfish, treated her as though she didn’t own him, as though he had the right to think of her like this. His shaking hands gripped the sink with knuckles turning red. Splashing his face with water did nothing to wash off the shame, the overwhelming guilt, the sin he had just committed.

If love was his wound, then lust was an infection, and his weakness could only heal if he denied himself thoughts of her. He was never meant to desire, to indulge like this. He was a tool, a glorified weapon - to ever think that he was worthy of her affection was laughable - he wasn’t human in the same was she was. He shook with disgust at himself, at his flawed, stupid mind, and prayed on his knees to whoever listened, prayed to Diana, wept that he was sorry, swore that he would never do it again, never let himself get so close.

He slept on his back that night, as usual, eyes shut tight as he tried to forget his newfound discovery.

**Author's Note:**

> ...and then a very flushed diana gently reminds him that he should turn his headset off sdfghjkjfdsdfgh
> 
> god i really need them to hug rn


End file.
